


Electromagnetism

by PrairieDawn



Series: Welcome to 1951 [2]
Category: MASH (TV), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bonding by building stuff, Clairvoyance, Crossover, M/M, Mentorship, Physics Wonk, Psychic Decompensation, Subspace Wonk, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-22 06:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15575481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrairieDawn/pseuds/PrairieDawn
Summary: Episode 2 of the series Welcome to 1951.Spock, with the aid of Radar O'Reilly, builds a subspace receiver into the camp radio.  Radar O'Reilly, with the aid of Spock, tunes his personal subspace receiver.Continuity note:  In the MASH timeline, this episode occurs between Hawkeye and 38th Parallels.  In the Star Trek timeline, the guys arrived several months after Turnabout Intruder.Thanks to all unofficial beta readers who catch my typos:  Darth_Mary_Sue among them.





	1. In which Spock takes a phone call from General Clayton

**Author's Note:**

> When last we left our friends, Spock and Kirk were recovering from life threatening injuries they received when their beam down was redirected from 2270 Tokyo to Korea, April 18, 1951, directly onto a land mine. Earth--this Earth--is reeling from the sudden rearrangement of all the stars in the sky.

April 21, 1951. 5:15 a.m. local time. 

“Update, Spock?” Jim said quietly, but firmly. He was awake and lucid, but lying flat in bed to protect still healing tissues. His impatience was palpable, but McCoy had impressed upon him the additional risk if he should relapse in an environment as primitive as this one.

Spock reported, “I have pinpointed the relative date as October fourth, 2270, Earth calendar, Stardate 6515.2. It is not yet possible to determine whether the Earth on which we reside was duplicated into our own universe. If it has, we have not moved in time at all, but merely 56.9 light years in space, while the planet around us was brought forward in time to our present. Alternately, we and this Earth may have been moved to a nearby alternate universe. In order to ascertain that information it would be necessary to collect material from a region of space that was not displaced along with the planet.”

“And since the moon came with us, we’re talking about a long haul at this Earth’s technology level,” McCoy said from his perch, sprawled on a chair with his foot braced against Jim’s bed frame. “They’re still several years from putting up an artificial satellite.”

“We need to know if the Klingons are out there,” Jim said, leaping to the most critical issue at hand.

“Indeed.”

“So are you planning to tell me who these Klingons are and why you’re so worried about them?” Colonel Potter, dressed in fatigues and a white lab coat, strode up to the three of them and planted himself at parade rest at the foot of Jim’s bed.

Spock turned slightly to include the Colonel in his discussion. “The Klingon Empire, in our world and time, waged a war against the Federation which very nearly destroyed it. That war ended eleven years ago for us, but the peace has been fragile.” Spock watched the older man carefully. As commander of this facility, his decisions could have incalculable impact on their chances for rescue.

Potter took the news calmly. “I see. And we’ve been dropped into their territory.”

“Very likely,” Spock confirmed.

Potter nodded. “How long have we got?”

Spock considered the question. “I am uncertain of what you are asking.”

Potter pursed his lips. “We’re in their territory. They must have a way of figuring that out. How long before they show up and start making trouble for us?”

“I think,” Kirk said, then paused to breathe. “No less than ten days.” Another rest. “A patrol ship will not make contact. They will tell their superiors. Then a larger ship, perhaps.” He closed his eyes and licked his lips. McCoy offered him a sip of water. “No more than ninety days.”

Potter frowned. “Ninety days isn’t long enough to gear up to repel an alien invasion. Any chance we can get help from your Federation?”

“Perhaps,” Spock allowed. “The Prime Directive prohibits interference with primitive cultures, and existing treaties with the Klingons would seem to preclude Federation vessels entering the area.”

“But,” McCoy added, “This Earth has been interfered with by, well, by whoever dropped us here and dragged the planet through several sectors and three centuries to get it to Klingon space. So the Prime Directive may not apply.”

“And it’s Earth.” Jim shifted slightly in his bed. Spock could feel his frustration at having to choose his words to save his breath. “Not some other world. Earth. We need to get word to Scotty.”

“That will take time, Jim,” Spock noted. “A subspace receiver requires much less power than a transmitter.” He explained for Potter’s benefit rather than Jim’s. “In addition, it poses a much lower risk of discovery. We must determine for certain whether we are in our home universe or in a near alternate, and it may be possible to do so by monitoring subspace traffic.”

“Agreed.” Jim said. “How long to build it?”

“Best case, three to five days. It will depend on acquiring the necessary materials and on the competence of my assistant, who so far has been promising.”

“Good.”

Potter nodded. “My company clerk may not look like much, but he’s a whiz with the radio. With scrounging supplies, too.”

“The clairvoyant?” Jim asked.

“Yes, captain, though I have yet to determine whether that ability will be a significant source of intelligence.”

Potter frowned. “From what I’ve seen, he generally doesn’t get more than a minute or two of advance notice about anything. And if you two push him into a breakdown by expecting him to perform for you I will make you regret it.”

“I would not subject Corporal O’Reilly to unnecessary harm,” Spock assured Potter, but from the Colonel’s expression his statement had the opposite effect.

“Update me every four hours on your progress with the subspace receiver, Spock,” Jim said.

“You get some rest.” Potter pulled Jim’s chart off the end of the bed to look at it, then turned to McCoy. “A potential alien invasion is way above my pay grade. We’re going to need to kick this upstairs. I’m calling in General Clayton.” 

“Tell me about Clayton,” Kirk said.

“He just doesn’t quit, does he,” Potter said to Spock.

“That he does not, sir.” Spock had been immensely relieved when Jim awakened in full possession of his faculties. He had been off balance, and not just because of the missing leg. Having his captain functioning, even if tied to a bed, gave him the sense that whatever happened the three of them would make the best decisions that could be made under the circumstances.

“Clayton’s a good man,” Potter continued. “He knows me and how I operate, was good friends with my predecessor here, and he’ll listen before he jumps to conclusions. Commander Spock, would you come with me to the radio room?”

Spock checked with Jim through the bond, but added verbally, “Captain?”

“Dismissed, Commander Spock,” Jim said, the formality of the phrase calculated for Potter’s benefit, but its effectiveness reduced somewhat by the twinkle in his captain’s eye. McCoy had used one of the precious vials of what he termed “the good stuff” for the morning’s briefing so that Jim would not be excessively distracted by pain. It was a short reprieve, but a welcome one. Spock was unable to think of a suitable subterfuge that would allow him to take Jim’s hand, even for a moment, while Potter was watching, so had to settle with projecting his affection and relief at his return to full awareness through the bond.

“You coming?” Potter asked.

Spock settled himself onto his crutches to cross the yard. Drier weather had improved the ground, and he quickly got into a swinging rhythm, so that Colonel Potter reached the door to the radio room moments before he did.

The radio room, when he entered, was lit only by the indirect dawn light filtering in from other rooms. Potter turned on a lamp. Spock turned in the direction of a groan to see Corporal O’Reilly curled under a blanket with a bugle and a small stuffed toy clutched in his arms. The young man squeezed his eyes shut against the light.

“Wake up, Radar,” Potter said. “I need you to get General Clayton in Seoul on the line.”

“Sir?” Radar scrubbed at his face with his hands, opened his eyes, and scrabbled frantically to a seated position, stopping only to retrieve the stuffed toy when it fell on the floor. He tucked it behind his body as though to hide it. “Sir, yes, sir. Commander, I mean Corporal Spock, good morning. Sorry.”

He stuffed his feet into his shoes, fumbled for his eyeglasses, hauled himself to his feet and stumbled past Potter and Spock to the radio, too sleepy to avoid brushing against Spock, as he’d scrupulously done since the first time Spock mentioned his preference not to be touched. The boy had barely brushed past him, the bare upper arm below the shirtsleeve brushing past his own jacketed elbow.

There wasn’t enough weight behind the touch to disrupt his balance, but Spock huffed out a breath and found himself hunching forward slightly in shock. The Corporal was exhausted, had a headache that rivaled Jim’s thoracic injury in intensity, and underneath there was a troubling current of disorientation and nausea. Spock turned to look at Radar, who either had not noticed or had ignored the contact. Radar settled into the chair by the radio, head propped up on his elbow, headphones covering most of his head. He moved a few of the primitive audio plugs from one port to another on the large panel by the microphone.

After four point three minutes of moving plugs and shaking his head in frustration, Radar sat up, his face brightening. “Sparky?” he said into the microphone. After a pause, he continued. “Sparky, I need General Clayton. Colonel Potter wants to talk to him.”

There was another, longer pause. “He’s busy,” Radar told Potter. “Peace talks breaking down, navigation problems, high level meetings...you might get hold of him in a week.”

“Not acceptable. Tell him whatever you have to to get him here.”

“You want me to lie, sir?” He indicated Spock with a glance.

“No. Tell him...tell him we’ve got some people here who can shed some light on the planet’s changed position, and I want to take it up with him before I try to get hold of Ridgway.”

“You’re going to try to get Ridgway?” Radar turned back to the mike. “So, the Colonel says we know what happened to the stars and we think Clayton would like to know too. He says it’s something Ridgway needs to know.”

“He says he’s heard that four times since midnight,” Radar told Potter. “Well there’s three of us in here and one of them’s a Colonel and ain’t none of us been drinking.” Another short pause. “No, it’s not a premonition, Sparky, we’ve got real live proof right here and theres some stuff Clayton needs to know that I can’t say over the radio.”

Potter leaned over to brace one hand on the desk beside Radar. “Let me talk to him, son.”

Radar pushed the microphone over to Potter and lay his head down on the desk. Potter took it, but favored his clerk with a worried glance before putting the ungainly thing to his mouth. “Now see here, Sparky, you get a message through to Clayton and you tell him, you tell him Sophie found out something about HR 7783 he needs to know immediately.” He pulled the headphones off Radar’s head and put one ear piece up to his ear without bothering to put them on.

There was another pause. “Yes, HR 7783. Exactly those numbers, and you need to tell him it came from Sophie.”

“Sophie’s our, your horse, sir,” Radar said.

Potter covered the microphone with his hand for a second. “I know, son, and so does Clayton. It’s an emergency code.” Potter noted for Spock, “I looked up a few things, and that HR catalog has been around for a couple of decades. Astronomers ought to have figured out basically where we are by now, but I doubt it’s a matter of public record.”

They waited several more minutes, Potter still holding half of the set of headphones to his ear. Finally, “I understand, Sparky. You keep trying. This is top priority.” He returned the headphones to Radar. “Boys,” he said, addressing Radar and presumably Spock, who was unaccustomed to be addressed in that manner, “Get to work on the radio.”

“Yes, sir,” Radar slurred.

Potter turned back. “You don’t look so good, son.”

Radar hauled himself to his feet and scrubbed hard at his face with his hands, knocking his glasses askew. He replaced them and shrugged. “You surgeons have it harder than me. I’ll be okay.”

Potter tipped Radar’s head back to look in his eyes. Radar stifled a flinch. “Start when these guys got here?”

“Yeah,” he said. He turned to Spock. “Not that I’m blaming you guys or anything. I know you’re just as stuck as, well, everybody…” he trailed off.

“Maybe Bones has an idea. I’ll ask him when I get back to Post Op.” Potter collected the bugle from Radar’s bed and placed it in a file cabinet. “You hear back from Sparky, you come get me. You don’t hear back from Sparky, you try again in an hour and give the same message.”

“Yes, sir,” Radar said. Potter left.

Spock arranged himself in front of an office chair, braced his crutches in front of him, and lowered himself down. The mechanics of moving, sitting, and lying down with a right leg that ended eighteen centimeters above the knee had begun to cause joints in his left leg and back to protest. He had also found that, along with the difficulty in securing privacy and his need to monitor Jim’s condition, his inability to assume the kneeling position he preferred interfered with meditation. He was, however, in no way as compromised as Radar, who had fallen into a fitful sleep with his head down on the desk, the headphones tucked up to his cheek like a substitute for the stuffed toy on the bed.

“Corporal O’Reilly,” he said softly, hoping to wake the boy without causing him to startle too badly. “Radar.”

“Sir?” he said, sitting back up. “Sorry, sir.”

“You are unwell.”

“Just tired, sir,” the boy lied.

Spock considered pursuing the issue, given that Radar, unshielded and in close quarters, radiated enough discomfort to distract him even without physical contact, but the need to begin work on the radio gave him pause. His worktable was set up neatly against the wall opposite the radio. He turned the chair to face it, found the components he had requested laid out neatly and a stack of notepads and sharpened pencils in the center. “Will it be permissible to wire the subspace receiver into the radio antenna?”

“Will the radio still work?”

“It is possible, likely in fact, that my modifications will improve the efficiency of the radio.”

“I guess so, then.” Radar stood by stages, as evidenced by the sound of his feet moving and the chair scraping against the floor. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I do not know, can you?” Spock said, half absently, considering the fact that the boy was leaning a considerable portion of his weight on the back of Spock’s chair. 

His statement was rewarded with a wave of shame, mixed with irritation. “ _May_ I help you with anything?”

Spock was confused, for a moment, until he replayed Radar’s words in his memory. Ah, he believed that he was being corrected for some obscure, archaic grammatical infraction. “I meant that it appears you may lack the strength to stand. Return to your bed. I will monitor the radio and awaken you if you are needed.”

Radar stepped backward, away from Spock’s chair. “I just need coffee and something to eat.” He swayed slightly on his feet. Ordinarily, Spock would have been out of his chair to steady him, but the missing leg made him too slow. Radar caught himself with a hand on his desk.

Spock regarded Radar dubiously, but detected in him the same stubborn insistence that he could do his job, regardless of his condition, that he found so endearing and infuriating in Jim. “Very well. I do not ordinarily eat breakfast. I will take a meal in Post Op with my companions later.”

Radar nodded, hunched into his jacket, and left for the mess. Spock made the effort to rise from his chair, arrange himself on his crutches, and maneuver himself to the door to watch him cross the yard to the mess tent, concerned that the clerk might faint on the way. He disappeared into the mess tent, and Spock returned to his work.

*

Eleven minutes later, a high pitched, warbling ring disturbed his concentration. He located the source in Colonel Potter’s office. Considering the possibility that this might be the previously discussed General Clayton returning their call, Spock got up onto his crutches and swung into Potter’s office to seek out the device producing the noise. He picked up the receiver on the fourth ring, “Colonel Potter’s office, Corporal Spock here.” 

“This is General Clayton. Spock, eh? You new?”

“In a manner of speaking, sir. Colonel Potter wishes to discuss an urgent matter concerning HR 7783 which cannot be discussed over an open channel.”

“Everything about HR 7783 is urgent. Something happen to Radar?”

“Radar is in the mess hall, but should be returning soon. Colonel Potter is in Post Op with a patient. Does the date four October, 2270 mean anything to you?”

“That is highly classified, Corporal. How did you get hold of that date?”

“I extrapolated it using my own instruments. I cannot provide details over an open channel, but the matter concerns the neighborhood in which we find ourselves.”

“Get Potter. I want to talk to him.”

“Of course, sir.”

Spock set the receiver on the desk beside its cradle and maneuvered his way out of the building and across the yard to Post Op, where Potter was standing at the end of Pete Jillson’s bed, speaking to another man in fatigues and a hat with a red cross emblazoned on it. “Sir,” he said, to catch Potter’s attention. “General Clayton is waiting to speak with you.”

“Thank you son.” He turned back to the other man. “Take care loading him up. I have to take this.” He handed the clipboard over and headed out the door, slowing slightly to allow Spock to match his pace. “Where’s Radar?”

“He went to the mess tent for coffee.” 

“While I was waiting for a call this important?”

“I suggested he attempt to sleep, but he insisted he would be able to function if he were able to obtain coffee. He is not well.” Potter nodded acknowledgement. They reached the office.

Potter picked up the phone. “Clayton? Clayton, are you there? Yes, yes, Sophie has been quite concerned. You’re telling me. And my clerk. That’s the one, all right. So, I know you’re a busy man, but I need you as soon as you can get here. Not over an open channel, no.” He paused to listen to the voice on the line. “Tomorrow? Yes, I can meet you tomorrow. I promise you, I am not wasting your time. Goodbye now.”

Potter replaced the receiver in its cradle and turned to Spock. “Any chance you can have that machine of yours running by 1400 hours tomorrow?”

Spock thought through the materials he had and those that had yet to be found. “I am having difficulty locating platinum. I also require a clear carbon crystal, preferably two.”

“You need diamonds and platinum.”

“Yes, sir. However, even after they are obtained it will require nineteen hours of labor to complete, twenty-five if Corporal O’Reilly is incapacitated,” which seemed increasingly likely to occur.

Potter sighed and pulled up a chair. “He’s always managed before. Tired, sick, busy as hell, he gets to looking like he’s been put through a sausage grinder and he still powers through. This time’s different. I don’t like it.”

The door banged open. Radar hurried in, looking if not well, at least lucid. “You guys are talking about me,” he accused.

Potter gestured to a seat. “I need to know what’s going on, son.”

Radar’s eyes flicked in Spock’s general direction. He crossed his arms and hunched over himself. “‘M not sleeping, sir. Bad dreams. Usually I’m lost. This morning there were all these wounded and I couldn’t find the helipad. I’m just tired, sir. Honest.”

Potter nodded, slapped Radar’s knee, and stood. “No more overnights for you for a while and I’m going to give you a sleeping pill tonight. Nine o’clock, you got me?”

Spock could both hear the increase in the boy’s heartbeat and feel the sharp, but quickly covered spike of fear. “Sir, I really don’t like sleeping pills.”

“Just try it once to catch up and then we’ll see.”

Radar nodded sharply, eyes still fixed on his knees. “Yes, sir.”

“Now I’m heading off to bed myself, but don’t hesitate to let me know if something important comes up.” Potter stood. “And Corporal…Commander Spock,” he corrected deliberately, “I will see what I can do about platinum. And diamonds. And if you can get that subspace radio up and running by tomorrow night I’d be grateful.”

“I will make the attempt, sir.” 

Spock watched Potter go, but instead of starting immediately on the radio he turned back to Radar. “How much do you know about particle physics?”

Radar blinked. “Nothing, sir.”

“Then you will learn. First, collect a spool of the fine copper wire and a long nail and wind it tightly.” He turned to collect the notepad and a pencil from the desk behind him. “The first thing to know is that the light around you is a kind of energy. That energy travels through space in a waveform, which we draw like so.” Radar nodded, his hands busy winding another of the many electromagnets they would need, but remained confused. Spock thought a moment and added, “Do not concern yourself if you do not understand yet. You understand the difference between amplitude and frequency, correct?”

“Like AM and FM radio, right?”

“Exactly.” He had found something familiar. That was a place to start. Radar leaned in closer to see his pencil drawings, engaged. Spock continued, “So, if you recall, in AM radio, the data—your voice—is coded by how tall each of these peaks are…”


	2. In which Spock makes a sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock and Radar make progress on the radio, while Radar's symptoms become more concerning.

Radar hurried back across the yard with another cup of hot coffee in one hand and a glass of copper adulterated tomato juice in the other. It was his third coffee and it wasn’t even lunchtime, but he needed to be alert or he would be of no use to Spock at all. He elbowed open the door to the radio room, where Spock bent over his table, drawing. “Dr. Bones said you should drink this,” he said, setting the juice down on the table by the radio, where it was less likely to be knocked over by an errant elbow. He gulped down his own cooling coffee and set the empty mug by Spock’s glass.

“I have completed design drawings for the device we will construct,” Spock said.

Radar pulled up a chair, careful this time to leave a little space between them. Working with the alien was almost like working by himself. There was the ever present warm, fizzy static, but no chatter or singing or putting up with other people’s headaches or crabbiness or needing to pee. He hoped the alien wasn’t too bothered by Radar’s headache. He touched a corner of the notebook. “May I see?”

Spock pushed them over. Some parts of the drawing Radar couldn’t make heads or tails of, but a big section looked a lot like the inside of the unit that dominated the office wall. Spock said, “I intend to use the longwire antenna from your radio to collect signal, feed it through the transducer here, then convert it to sound. The photon equivalents carrying subspace radio waves propagate at what would, in our universe, be at much shorter wavelengths than ordinary electromagnetic radiation.”

Radar picked up his own notebook and flipped to the set of pages where he and Spock had drawn coordinates and overlapping sine waves. “Why?”

“Because the layers of subspace are smaller than the space we live in.”

“So they have to be shorter to fit?” Radar said. He imagined subspace as a series of maps of different sizes that matched up to the universe. If there were a mountain somewhere in the real world, it would have to be drawn a lot smaller to fit on the map. He had been told he was wrong, but that his idea was a usable metaphor. Whatever that meant.

Spock didn’t answer his question right away, which probably meant that he was wrong again in some obscure way that he wouldn’t understand unless he studied subspace radios for years. Finally, he said, “More or less. So, we will have Klinger run this braided wire alongside the longline to efficiently collect subspace signals.” He held up a fine rope of three different types of wire, intricately braided and twisted. “The transducer, for which I will need two diamonds and 2.54 grams of platinum, will transform the subspace signal into radio waves, which will then be turned into sound here.”

“Why not just use our radio for the last part?” Radar said. “Wire the transducer into the camp radio. It should work the same way, shouldn’t it?” He hoped he wasn’t being stupid.

Spock was silent for too long again. Radar’s hopes fell. The alien was awfully patient with his silly questions and the way he sometimes had to have things explained over and over. He still couldn’t understand why light was related to electricity and magnetism. He could label a picture correctly, and he could figure out from the picture what he needed to do to make a radio work when it broke, but he didn’t really understand how such different things as sunlight, the electricity that ran the lamps and the radio, and magnets were different aspects of the same thing.

“I believe,” Spock said, tracing a path across the diagram with his finger, “I believe that, if we do as you say, we may be able to complete the subspace receiver by 1400 hours tomorrow, if we are able to find the diamonds.”

Radar’s heart jittered in his chest, though he wasn’t sure whether it was with pride or excess caffeine. “Engagement rings,” he said. Something shifted again, not in his head, but in the blizzard of possibility around him that he pointedly ignored most of the time. He thought it was a good shift, but he wasn’t sure. Good or bad, it sent the room spinning around him briefly so he had to reswallow his coffee.

“Excuse me?” Spock turned to him with a look that might have been concern.

Radar chose to assume that Spock was asking about the rings. “Some of the nurses might have engagement rings. With diamonds in them.”

The alien nodded. “They will not wish to part with them,” he warned.

“No, they won’t.”

“Radar, will you bring the head nurse here that I might speak to her?”

Radar nodded. Major Houlihan was not going to like the idea of shaking the nurses down for diamond rings, but it was the fastest way to get diamonds. “I’m still looking for the platinum,” he said.

“I have a source. Please bring Nurse Houlihan.”

Radar stood up, intending to dash out the door to find Houlihan. Instead, he took half a step and found he needed to sit down on the floor. Aspirin barely touched the headache he’d awakened with, and the coffee wasn’t keeping him alert for more than an hour or so at a time. He just needed to gulp down another cup of the vile stuff. As soon as the room stopped spinning quite as quickly, he said, “Sorry, I tripped over my shoelaces.” He wasn’t quite ready to get up, though.

“I would prefer that you not lie to me,” Spock said, turning to face him.

Radar flinched. “Don’t tell Colonel Potter.”

“I will refrain from informing your superior officer if you explain to me what just happened. Truthfully.”

“I got dizzy.”

“That much was evident.”

“Sometimes when big stuff changes it makes me queasy. I don’t know what changed, but something big did, like, bigger than just me and people I know, you know?”

“I do not know, or I would not have asked. I do not have the ability to perceive future potentials.” His attention shifted away from Radar and back to the table. “It is imperative that we complete the transceiver as quickly as possible, but perhaps tomorrow we should discuss your situation in more detail. Doctor McCoy believes you could benefit from learning certain Vulcan mental disciplines.”

Radar kind of liked learning about subspace radios from Spock. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to talk about the future stuff with him. Maybe. He didn’t like to talk about it too much, because then he thought about it more and he was afraid if he didn’t keep pushing it away it would swallow him whole. Also he didn’t like the sound of the word discipline. It sounded too much like Frank Burns making him brush his teeth and make his bed and wear his uniform properly. “Maybe,” he allowed, unable to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. 

“I am concerned that if you do not learn to manage your abilities, at the rate your world’s future is changing, you may suffer injury.”

“I can handle it,” he said, feeling defensive and a little worried that he was lying.

Spock, mercifully, allowed the matter to drop. “When you are able to stand, please retrieve Major Houlihan. If the radio is to be completed by tomorrow, I must have the diamonds soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Radar gave himself another minute, then hauled himself back to his feet. Houlihan was on duty with Hawkeye in Post Op. He stopped in the middle of the yard where it was quiet. The sky felt heavy. He racked his brain to place the feeling, finally deciding it was most similar to the way he felt the night before a test he was afraid he’d fail. Something was looming, and the sooner that receiver was done, the better off they would be. He set off for Post Op as briskly as the vertigo would allow.

He walked in on Kirk playing cards with Hawkeye and McCoy, while Houlihan did paperwork irritably at her desk. Hawkeye looked up when the door closed. “Radar,” he said. He stood as soon as he saw him and hurried over. “You don’t look so good. Come sit down.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, waving off the doctor’s pulse taking and fever checking hands. “Major Houlihan, Commander…Corporal Spock wants to talk to you about supplies he needs for the special radio.”

“You’re in charge of supplies Corporal, get them yourself,” she said without getting up.

Hawkeye dragged Radar to a chair and pushed him down into it. “Radar’s tachy. He’s not feverish, but do you want to run that scanner thing over his hand in case it’s getting infected?”

Bones got up to wave the little whistling cylinder over him, frowned, twisted it slightly, and ran it over him again. “The hand’s healing just fine. Sit still a minute, Radar.” Radar sat obediently while the doctor held the scanner near his left ear and then over his forehead for over a minute, then set it down to flip though his datapad. “I don’t like the look of your neuroscan, though. You can’t put off resting until the end of your shift. Hawkeye, what would you say to giving him the Seconal now?”

“Just let me take Major Houlihan to talk to Com—Corporal Spock first,” Radar argued. “It’s really important.”

Hawkeye crossed the room to hand something to the Major. “Walk him back to his room, talk to Spock, then make sure he takes this, will you?”

“I have a lot of work to catch up on,” she complained, but she did hesitate at the door long enough for him to get up and follow her. “And you,” she shook her head. “We’re all tired. It’s a damn war—police action—whatever. You better pull yourself together.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She strode into the radio room ahead of him, on a mission. Spock stood upon seeing her. “Major.”

“Commander.” Radar noted with surprise that she used his correct, Navy rank. “I was told you wished to see me about supplies for this radio thing you’re building.”

“Yes. I am uncertain as to the extent to which you have been briefed concerning the seriousness of our current situation.”

“I have been informed that the Earth has been moved halfway across the sky, which sounds ridiculous on the face of it, but there you are with your green blood and pointed ears,” she said the last with annoyed emphasis. After a pause, she continued. “I’ve heard rumors that the Earth is in some kind of enemy territory.”

“The subspace radio is one of only two potential means we have to ascertain whether this planet is indeed under threat within a reasonable time frame. It must be completed as soon as possible, and in order for this to occur, I must have two diamonds to incorporate into the transponder.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“It would be best if the diamonds could be obtained today. I am aware of the human custom in which couples who intend to marry exchange rings, which during this era tend to be adorned with diamonds. I am also aware that these adornments are far more commonly given to women than to men.”

“You want to know if I have any diamond rings?”

“You, or the other female personnel here, yes.”

“Nobody’s giving up their engagement rings so you can build a radio.” She turned on her heel.

“Major Houlihan, I implore you to listen. For one moment.”

She turned back around. Spock continued. “First, I wish to assure you that the stones will not be damaged in the process, and may be returned when suitable diamonds without sentimental attachment are found to replace them. Second. I…” He reached inside his shirt to pull out the silver and gold ring on its chain around his neck. “I do not know if you are aware that I am married.”

“To your captain, who happens to be another man,” she said, biting off the words with disgust.

“I have no interest in justifying my relationship to you, only to demonstrate the seriousness of the situation. This is my wedding ring. My husband bears an identical ring, both of which were forged on my homeworld, a considerable number of light years from here, if it exists at all in this universe. It is irreplaceable.” He lifted the chain from around his neck and slipped the ring off, resting it on the table. “It is the physical representation of the most important relationship in my life, one that may yet be lost to me if Jim succumbs to his injuries, as he still may.”

“Kirk is recovering well…” Houlihan started to say, but Spock held up his hand to signal that he wasn’t finished.

“I am fully aware of the extent of his injuries and the fragility of his current condition. The construction of this radio requires a small amount of platinum. This ring is 48.4 percent platinum, and is the only immediately available source of the metal, aside from Jim’s own ring.”

He picked up a small soldering torch, placed the ring in a metal tray, and passed the torch over the ring until it softened and began to lose its shape. Radar didn’t know if the Major could see the slight pinching of Spock’s features, but it was clear to him that destroying the ring came at great personal cost. He bowed his head and bit down a little on his own lip in sympathy.

“Do you understand now?”

“You said there was another way.”

“There may be.” He looked at Radar, briefly, who stiffened under his gaze, sure that the alien would be disappointed once he found out Radar’s tendency to know what was going to happen was as slippery as a fish and usually didn’t give him more than a few minutes’ notice. “However, it is a higher risk option, and one I prefer to approach with caution.”

Houlihan frowned at both of them. “I’ll see what I can do. They’ll get the diamonds back?”

“As soon as replacements arrive, yes.”

Houlihan turned to Radar. “Take the pill, take a nap, and pull yourself together.” She pressed the small white pill into his palm.

“I don’t like sleeping pills,” he protested again.

She didn’t dignify his protest with an answer, just stood there with her hands on her hips until he swallowed it, dry. He made a face at the bitter taste.

“May I ask what drug the corporal ingested and whether Dr. McCoy was consulted in its selection?”

The major huffed. “A hundred milligrams of Seconal. You think our doctors don’t know what they’re doing? Sit down before you fall down, Corporal. Commander,” she nodded to Spock, turned on her heel, and left, blonde hair swinging behind her.

Radar sat down on his bed. He really didn’t like sedatives. The last time he had one he’d slept like a rock for four hours and then fitfully, with terrifying dreams, for another two. That had been after…he didn’t want to think about that right now. “Sorry I can’t help you, sir,” Radar said. “I’m sure Klinger can do it. He’s smart.”

Spock turned in his chair. “You will be more effective when you are rested.”

“What are you going to build if the subspace receiver doesn’t work?”

“It will work. Eventually it will be necessary to build a subspace transmitter, but that is a much more difficult and time consuming proposition, and will also advertise our presence to any hostile neighbors.”

Radar yawned. He felt like he ought to be worried about that, but the sleeping pill was making it hard for him to care about anything much. His head felt cottony, like it was wrapped in layers of muffling batting. “That’s nice,” he said. He curled up on the bed and tucked Tiger under his chin. Spock turned back to his work. Radar was lulled to sleep by the soft sounds of pencil scratches and the clicks and tings of radio components being assembled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't panic, Radar is in the series for the long haul (and in the followup series). I would never fridge my cinnamon roll.


	3. In which everybody talks about Radar behind his back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock, Kirk, and Hawkeye discuss what to do about Radar.

Jim was propped up at a thirty degree angle to make it easier for him to draw breath. His heart and lungs had shown sufficient improvement that Dr. McCoy was no longer concerned that they would tear apart under the pull of gravity, and placing him at the raised angle made it easier for Jim to draw in enough air to sustain consciousness without Tri-Ox. The doctor had used the last dose of that precious drug on him last night. Both Spock and Jim appreciated the changed position for other reasons, not least because it made Jim feel like he was more involved in the decision making process. Spock sat at his bedside braiding the several meters of wire needed to make the subspace longline, leaving the radio room free for O’Reilly to catch up on his sleep.

“How is the subspace receiver coming along?” Jim asked.

Spock spared a moment to glance down at the braid of wire trailing from his fingers. “I made a design change at the suggestion of Corporal O’Reilly that may make it possible for the receiver to be completed before our meeting with General Clayton tomorrow.”

“That’s great, Spock!” Jim said. “Smart kid.”

“Indeed. I do have concerns, however, that need to be addressed.”

Doctor Pierce approached the bed, interrupting their discussion. “I’d like to check your vital signs,” he said to Jim. He pulled up a chair and produced Dr. McCoy’s medscanner. “Bones gave me a tutorial, then I sent him to bed. Let’s see.” He swept the scanner slowly and carefully down Kirk’s body from head to foot, then tucked it back into a padded fabric bag clearly custom made just to protect the pad and medscanner. The bag was exactly the right size right down to a separate padded pocket for the scanner itself, made of a silky floral print fabric with matching tassels on the zipper.

Jim indicated the bag. “Klinger’s work?” he asked. 

Pierce chuckled. “Man’s a genius with a needle and thread. Whipped it up yesterday to keep them from getting broken.” He looked down at the datapad. Well, you don’t have a fever and your sats look good. Now, how do I get the fancy chest X-ray…uh oh.”

“Problem, Hawkeye?” Jim asked.

“I erased the screen. Hold on.” He tapped it again. “Oh, that’s not good. I can’t read it at all now.”

Jim and Spock both held out hands for the medscanner at once. Pierce handed it to Spock with an apologetic shrug toward Jim. Spock returned the language display to Federation Standard and recalled the thoracic scan, then returned the device to the doctor.

“I will never stop loving this thing,” Pierce said. “It’s like being able to do exploratory surgery without ever opening up the patient. We need to keep an eye on the right side of your chest, looks like you might be developing some adhesions. You want to see?”

“Thank you, no,” Kirk said, his smile belying the brief flash of anxiety/horror that passed through their bond. Spock knew that when Kirk saw anatomical images, he saw dead friends and crewmates reaching back two decades, but Pierce didn’t need to know that. He rested a hand on the captain’s shoulder. Pierce did not find their displays of affection distasteful, as some of the nurses did, though sometimes they evoked a certain melancholy. Spock accepted Kirk’s considerable physical pain with the touch, offering what comfort he could provide.

“I hear we might be walking into another damn war,” Pierce said.

Spock nodded. “If we can obtain information about local conditions quickly, it may be possible to prevent open hostilities from occurring.” He found that doubtful, given the state of the Klingon empire of late. Much depended as well on whether the Organians would be willing to open negotiations in light of the presence of the duplicate Earth just on the Klingon side of the enforced Neutral Zone.

“Does he always talk like that?” Pierce asked Jim.

“Always,” Jim confirmed. “It’s adorable.” He failed to suppress a wince when he shifted position in the bed. Spock sent comfort as best he could. Actually blocking the pain signals themselves was a much more precise, difficult process, fiddly as McCoy would say, and he would not devote himself to it until the Captain was ready to sleep. He returned to his handwork, twisting and braiding the wire until it abraded his fingers. He regretted eschewing Nurse Houlihan’s offer of bandage tape to wrap his fingertips.

“Seems like we’re always either bored or swamped,” Pierce said. “Chess?”

Jim smiled weakly. “I’d like that. Want to play the winner, Spock?”

“Certainly. I will complete this work in one hour, then will require the assistance of Corporal Klinger to run this wire alongside the longwire, as my leg and Corporal O’Reilly’s wrist injury and developing vertigo prevent us from doing it ourselves.” He paused. 

“Why don’t you two play first then and I’ll have the next game with Jim.” Pierce left for a moment to collect the board and pieces.

Once Pierce was out of earshot, Spock continued, “Captain, do you have any opinion as to how to proceed with Corporal O’Reilly?”

“Why should I? You didn’t ask me about the girl on Omega Four.” Spock opened his mouth to justify his actions of the previous year, but Jim cut him off with a slight head shake against the pillow. “Ended well for all concerned I think.”

Spock steepled his hands, the gesture aiding his concentration. “I am considering whether to encourage the corporal to attempt to determine the shape of approaching events. Regardless of whether we do so, matters necessitate that I intervene to stabilize his condition sooner than I had hoped.”

“Oh?”

“He is decompensating. Dr. McCoy examined him while he was sleeping. The doctor believes that the shock of being displaced in time, followed by events that are likely to cause large scale changes in his future and the future of those he is connected to has caused significant psychological strain. Unfortunately, I have no experience with clairvoyance, so.” Pierce returned with the chess board. Spock chose not to finish his thought. 

Pierce lay out the board, a two dimensional model, and started placing the pieces. “Problem?”

“No, Dr. Pierce,” Spock said.

“Bullshit. Is it about the, what were they called, Klingons?”

“No,” Jim said.

“Interplanetary politics?” He finished setting up the pieces and pushed the table over so Kirk could reach the board without strain.

“No,” Jim said. “You can be white,” he told Spock.

Spock made an opening move. Pierce perched on his chair to watch them play. “Radar, then.”

Jim moved, and Spock considered, then countered. At this point they were merely setting up the board for the type of game they would play. He would spend more time contemplating each move later. “I would have addressed the matter sooner were it not of paramount importance to complete the subspace receiver quickly.”

“I won’t see him used as a tool.” The doctor’s voice was weary, but hard.

Spock challenged, “Not even to protect your whole world?” The captain laid his piece down more sloppily than usual, a sign of his fatigue.

“No.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, getting in Spock’s face.

“Do not the needs of the many outweigh those of the few?” Spock placed his countermove.

“No,” Pierce got up to pace. “Not when it’s Radar.”

Spock watched Jim make his move, mostly so he could assess the captain’s condition by the tremor in his hands and the time he took to make his move. He nodded at Pierce. “I concur.” He took a moment to measure the length of wire he had produced so far, then worked the next wire into the growing pattern. He turned back to Jim. “I plan to take action to remedy the situation this afternoon.” He made another move. The two dimensional game was in some ways simpler, but because he had rarely played it, it took some attention to transpose his strategy.

“Keep Bones with you. Or Hawkeye. To be on the safe side.”

“My plan exactly. Mate in five moves.”

“Really? I didn’t think I was that off my game.” Kirk took a moment to confirm Spock’s prediction, then huffed in annoyance.

“It’s probably just the morphine,” Pierce said. He returned to his folding chair, the better to meet Spock’s eyes. “I thought we just agreed Radar’s not a piece of equipment. Damned nickname notwithstanding.”

Jim smiled slightly. “No. Radar is not adjusting well to the time shift. Spock may be able to help him. He has been prioritizing finishing the subspace receiver, but Bones is worried about Radar’s health.” 

Spock accepted Jim’s summary and continued, “As you appear to be directly concerned with O’Reilly’s well being, I believe you are the person best equipped to advise me as to how best to proceed.”

Pierce nodded, still leaning forward, but his hands now clasped loosely between his knees. “He hasn’t been this bad since—since Henry died. He was worse then.”

“They were close?” Jim said.

“Very. Radar’s dad died when he was young. Henry’s plane was shot down over the South China Sea. When he died, maybe a little before, knowing him, Radar knew. Not just that he died, but exactly how. He sat alone in the radio room for over an hour while the rest of us were in surgery, waiting for the telegram to arrive so he could officially declare him dead.” Pierce passed a hand across his eyes. “Then he collapsed. He was a very sick kid for a couple of days. We put viral meningitis in his chart, but none of us believed that.”

“How long ago did this occur?” Spock asked.

“About three months ago.”

If there were some sort of unconsciously produced familial bond, such as the one Spock shared with Dr. McCoy, an untrained, isolated youth like O’Reilly could have been seriously injured by its loss. An injury most likely not completely healed. “Dr. Pierce, we have two separate issues to consider. The first is simple, the second much more difficult.”

“And the simple part?”

“Corporal O’Reilly’s abilities are causing him distress. I gather that he has been able to cope with them, to an extent, but in particular the connection he has with future probabilities appears to have been strained in some way by the dislocation of this planet. Between that and the ongoing strain of living as an untrained, unshielded telepath in a war zone, Dr. McCoy and I are surprised that he has been able to function as well as he does.”

Pierce shook his head. “I’d love to send him home. I don’t think Potter would go for that, though. And he doesn’t need to be saddled with a Section 8.”

“Corporal O’Reilly is as sane as I am. It is likely , however, that he would benefit from some more direct assistance and training, such as I might provide. I am not trained as a mind healer, but circumstances have required me to improvise on numerous occasions in the past, and I believe I may be able to heal some of the damage caused by the dislocation and possibly the broken bond.”

“But it’s dangerous, I’m guessing?”

“I might have said so a few years ago, but experience tells me no, certainly no more dangerous than allowing him to continue as he is. The second issue, asking him to attempt to use his clairvoyant abilities is more complicated. I am not clairvoyant myself, and have not directly experienced the mind of anyone with that ability, hence my ability to be of assistance in ordering his impressions may be limited. However this is not my main concern.”

Pierce turned to Jim. “Does he talk circles around his point all the time?” 

“All the time,” Jim said. “Today, Spock.” 

“Corporal O’Reilly, possibly in part due to his abilities and some other atypical neurological features McCoy noted earlier, avoids conflict. He is also outranked by you, Doctor, and myself and considers it his duty to obey even abusive orders.”

“Frankly abusive, you mean?” Pierce quipped.

Spock caught the play on words. “Indeed. Major Burns’ habitual mistreatment is a factor in my concern. In any case, I find myself questioning his ability to freely consent to what is, of necessity, a difficult and intimate process.”

Pierce nodded understanding. “I wish Sidney were here. Look, as the doctor who got him through his last episode, I can pretty much prescribe any treatment I want, but I don’t want him thinking he’s being railroaded. Have you talked to him yet about it?”

“I confess I have not.”

“Coward,” Jim quipped.

Pierce nodded. “We’ll both talk to him about it. After dinner.”

“I’m going to try to get some sleep,” Jim said. “Sorry, I don’t think I’d be much of an opponent,” he told Pierce.

“I’ll give you two your privacy, then,” Hawkeye said.

“Wait,” Kirk said. “Sounds like Spock wants you with him when he starts working with Radar. It would be best if you saw how he works beforehand.”

Pierce laughed aloud. “You really have no idea how many times he--what’s the word, melded?—with you over the past three days.”

“Nine,” Spock supplied. “It was necessary to stabilize your condition following your injury.”

“Uh huh. He was worried sick about you.”

“That’s my Spock.”

Pierce hung Jim’s chart up on the end of his bed. “Anyway, I’m going to check on Radar. Seconal should be wearing off pretty soon.”

Spock turned back to the doctor. “Could you have Klinger meet me outside by the longline? I wish to explain how to run the new cable.”

“Yeah. Meet you in the radio room.” The door shut behind him. Ginger looked up from her novel at the sound, glanced toward Spock and Jim, and returned to her book, though her posture showed increased vigilance.

Spock dismissed her. “Ready, Jim?”

Jim nodded. “Don’t let me sleep too long.”

“Dr. McCoy will be here at 1800 hours and will surely insist that you eat something.” He traced Jim’s fingers with his, drawing two fingers up his palm and across the wrist, allowing his bondmate to feel the depth of his affection while assessing his level of pain. “Be still now,” he whispered. He settled his fingers into the familiar position, only needing the formal contact because of the “fussiness” of tracing the specific patterns of nerves carrying the most egregious pain messages and inhibiting them one tract at a time. Jim drifted, half asleep and not interfering with Spock’s work. He finished with a light mental caress and a suggestion to sleep.

Gathering his crutches reminded him again of his inconvenient lack of a lower limb. He schooled himself to patience. If they were rescued, his leg could be regrown in roughly sixteen days. If not, he would find time to construct an acceptable prosthesis.

Moving on crutches, on the other hand, was becoming more comfortable and natural the more he did it. Spock caught up with Klinger, who was wearing fatigues and boots for a change, with a pillbox hat and earrings. Spock passed the coiled wire to the Corporal. “It must run the length of the longline, but should not contact it directly. I intended to cover the wire with insulating tape, but I am needed for other business at this time.”

“I’ll get it wrapped and put up, Commander,” Klinger said. “Hawkeye and Bones are waiting for you inside.”

Spock pivoted. Opening the makeshift, ill fitting doors to the buildings in camp had not gotten much easier, but he managed to get himself inside without catching either crutch on the door frame.

McCoy and Pierce were discussing matters related to a surgical case, McCoy perched on the edge of his seat with his datapad in hand. Pierce sat at Spock’s table. Fortunately, he was not touching anything at the moment Spock came in the door, but having seen the surgeon’s constant habit of twiddling things—not unlike McCoy’s, really—he found himself concerned. Pierce offered him his seat. Spock took a moment to assess the state of his belongings before turning back to the other men. O’Reilly turned over in his cot and mumbled something unintelligible. He seemed distressed, even in sleep.

There was something intrusive, he felt, about discussing the young man’s situation while he slept in their presence. “Does the Corporal not have quarters of his own?” he asked.

Pierce shrugged. “Technically, all the noncoms are supposed to share quarters. The cot’s just there in case there’s a reason someone needs to babysit the radio over night. I don’t think Radar’s ever slept anywhere else, though. Frankly, I think it’s a coping strategy. He needs time to himself.”

“Klinger has his own tent.”

“Special circumstances,” Pierce said. “The other noncoms kicked him out.”

The door banged open. Major Houlihan strode in, an envelope in her hand. “We have a party going on in here?”

“Starting to look like it,” McCoy said.

“Commander Spock, I have the items you asked for. I expect them to be returned as soon as possible.” She passed him the small, sealed envelope.

Spock opened the envelope to ensure that the diamonds were of adequate size. “Please pass my gratitude on to the donors.” Humans, he had learned, expected thanks, and while logic should not require it, logic also dictated that one must not alienate one’s benefactors.

“Just don’t lose them.” She frowned at Radar where he lay on the cot. “Wake him up now. You let him sleep past four hours on the Seconal he gets nightmares.”

“So you _do_ care,” Pierce said.

Houlihan stopped in the doorway. “He’s a good clerk. I don’t want to break in a new one.” She turned on her heel and let the door swing shut behind her.

“Major Houlihan reminds me of you, Doctor,” Spock said.

McCoy rolled his eyes and turned back to Pierce. “Barbiturate family drugs are psi suppressants, but they can produce rebound effects when they wear off,” McCoy said to Pierce. “Hence the nightmares.”

Pierce knelt beside O’Reilly’s cot. “Radar?” he said.

“No!” O’Reilly, caught between sleep and waking, flung his arms over his face. “Don’t! Let him go!”

Pierce shook him firmly by one jacketed shoulder. “Radar, we’re all right here.”

He startled, then opened his eyes to focus on Pierce. “Sorry, sir.” He tucked his stuffed toy behind him again as though he were ashamed to have it and pushed himself to a sitting position, fumbling for his eyeglasses. Pierce collected them for him. 

“Nightmare?” Pierce said. 

O’Reilly nodded. “There was…like guns but with light. Like laser guns, and big monsters, or men with,” he dragged his fingernails across his forehead. “It was just a bad dream.”

McCoy shook his head. “What did the monsters look like?”

“Big. Hairy. Like people, but there was something wrong with their faces.”

McCoy ran his medscanner over O’Reilly. “How you feeling other than getting chased by monsters?”

“Hungry I guess?” O’Reilly fumbled his glasses onto his face.

McCoy slapped his thighs and stood. “Let’s all head over to the mess, then. He’s stable enough.”

Spock realized at that moment that he had, indeed, forgotten to eat today. He had also never gone to the mess tent himself, preferring to avoid social contact with the local inhabitants where possible. It was the dinner hour and an hour before shift change, which meant the tent was likely to be crowded. “I will take my meal here,” he said.

“No, you won’t. You need to be seen. People are talking about you.” McCoy gestured Spock out the door, then followed along with Pierce and O’Reilly.

“How does it then follow that I should associate with them?”

“You’re the first real alien any of them have ever met, and it’s beginning to look like they’re going to be seeing a whole lot more. If they get it in their head that you’re dangerous, it could go badly for us. And for the planet.”

He would prefer to assemble the transducer here, rather than socialize with a large number of curious, ill mannered humans. “My father is an ambassador. I am not.”

“You are today.”

*

Spock entered the mess tent to line up with humans he did not know, though he did see Hunnicutt and Potter ahead of him. When he reached the front of the line, he was faced with an unappetizing display of mostly boiled human foodstuffs. “No meat,” he told the wan young man with the ladle. He was attempting to puzzle out the logistics of managing a food tray and crutches when Hunnicutt stepped into line in front of him, having already deposited his own tray at his seat. “I’ll carry your tray.”

That problem solved, Spock followed Hunnicutt to the table he shared with Pierce, Potter, McCoy, and O’Reilly. The clerk was steadily working his way through a mountain of mashed potatoes into which he had mixed his peas. Hunnicutt and Pierce sat next to each other, close enough that they touched from elbows to knees in a way that was neither subtle nor accidental. Potter took his place next to Spock, leaving McCoy to sit on his other side. There was a glass of tomato juice sitting in front of him. He picked it up and tipped it from side to side to hear the telltale clink of a ball of copper wire. He downed it quickly, suppressing a grimace.

Pierce picked at his food. Hunnicutt leaned in to him and whispered, “Eat ten bites and I’ll give you a taste of something else later.” His mouth was turned all the way to Pierce’s ear, and the whisper had been quite soft, so clearly Spock had not been meant to hear it. Pierce ducked his head, stifling a laugh.

In order to forestall further such accidental indiscretions, Spock noted, “It may be of interest to you that Vulcans have significantly better hearing than humans, especially at high frequencies.”

“It’s not,” McCoy said. He turned to Potter. “I work with a showoff.”

“So I see. It looks like Klinger’s about done running your longline,” Potter said.

Spock nodded acknowledgment. “I have located the materials I discussed with you previously. Houlihan made me a loan. She would like her items returned as soon as they can be replaced.”

“Good. I asked Clayton to bring some up with him.” Potter said.

“Corporal O’Reilly made a suggestion this morning that will cut the time required to complete the work by 63.2 percent. It may be possible to complete the receiver prior to meeting with General Clayton.”

“63.2, huh? Nice work, Radar.”

O’Reilly blushed and shrugged, eyes fixed on his meal tray. “I just thought a radio’s a radio, that’s all.”

McCoy said, “Spock, once you have that receiver squared away, I could use some kind of power converter for my instruments. The dermal regenerator’s already out of juice, and I might get one or two more uses out of the tissue regenerator and the bone knitter.”

“Lot of wounded coming in starting tomorrow night,” O’Reilly said, looking up from his potatoes.

“Leave the discharged items on my desk and I will attempt to construct something acceptable.” 

“Sure it’s night? Should I move the meeting with Clayton?” Potter asked O’Reilly.

“Probably after dark. They’re moving troops around again. Sparky thinks there’s gonna be a push.” Radar chugged his milk. “I got #3 silk and bandage scissors on my list. And I’m ordering a bunch of gloves. Anything else you want?”

“We have gloves,” Hunnicutt said. He was still turned toward Pierce, counting his bites. It seemed a distinct possibility that the wiry surgeon would not earn his reward—assuming that the offer were not merely risque humor.

“I know.” Radar got up to dump his tray. “I’m going back to my office.” Spock did not miss the slight tremor in the clerk’s hands. He caught Pierce’s eye for a moment. The doctor waved him off.

Pierce finished what might generously be called bite number eight, then turned to Spock and McCoy. “I say we get this over with. He’s only going to get more worked up if we let him stew.”

McCoy nodded agreement. “I’m on shift 1800 to 0600. You okay with having Hawkeye keep an eye on the two of you?”

“I do not require supervision.”

“You do too. You’re as bad as Jim.” He picked up his own tray. “Hawkeye, Spock’s readings never make sense anyway. Monitor the kid. You don’t like what you see, come get me.”


	4. In which Radar takes a walk in a cornfield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Radar O'Reilly and Spock work on Radar's problem.

Radar didn’t go back to his office, at least not directly. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to be found at all as he didn’t want to be found right away. So he stopped by Sophie’s stall with a carrot he filched from the kitchen and fed it to her while he leaned up against her warm, smooth furred flank and ran his hands over her neck. Sophie was more interested in the carrot than in Radar, but that was fine with him because she was a horse. He couldn’t stay so out in the open for long though, not if he was going to have time to sit and think things through.

He walked around the corner to the sheltered space where he kept the stacked cages for his animals. He’d only been bitten the once and the consequences had made him sick with guilt, so he had learned to be even more careful, even more slow, even more gentle with his raccoon and rabbits and the skunk he had raised from an orphaned infant with baby bottles of milk he’d gotten from the mess.

He scooped Pepe out of his cage. It was high time he changed all their papers--he’d been too distracted and frankly tired to keep up with taking care of the animals this last couple of days. Pepe liked to snug herself up under his neck and wrap her tail all the way around like a muffler. She sniffled at his ear and up to his glasses, smearing them with a little skunk slobber. “Hey Pepe, sorry about the dirty cage, you know I still love you,” he murmured, skritching behind the skunk’s ears.

The sky was blue, the shadows growing just a little long, giving Radar the illusion of cover. The monsters from his dream sat in the edge of his peripheral vision, their eventual presence not a matter of if, but of when. He thought about his Ma and wondered if he’d see her again, then squeezed his eyes shut tight because if you don’t want the answer you shouldn’t ask the question. Pepe squeaked under his chin, probably aware of his distress. Animals were like that. It was one of his favorite things about them. The other being that they weren’t nearly so complicated and hard to figure out as people. Animals knew what they were about. Most people didn’t even know themselves, moment to moment.

Someday my best friend will be a rock, he thought, apropos of nothing, and worried that was some awful way the universe was telling him he’d never have any real friends. He shouldn’t be picky. So what if the only people around here who cared about him were old enough to be his parents. Or grandparents. Who spent as much time worrying about him as liking him. He leaned back against the bank of crates and chicken wire he’d made into cages and closed his eyes, Pepe still cradled neatly in the hollow of his throat, not thinking about anything for a while.

They found him, of course, or would in a minute or so. Pepe curled up in his hands when he stood. “Sirs,” he said. 

“To what purpose do you keep these animals?” Spock asked. Did he detect a hint of disapproval?

“Sir, well, I…the rabbits somebody was going to eat, and the skunk, her mom died and I raised her from a baby. Shadow, here, my raccoon, we were driving out to Kimpo and we got shelled and some dirt and stuff got in his eyes, so Hawkeye let me bring him back and helped me rinse them out, but he can’t see so good anymore.” He poked his fingers through the bars for Shadow to sniff while he talked. “Give me a minute, I need to change their papers. I haven’t had a chance since you got here, and it’s bad for their feet and their, um, lungs if I don’t.” He reached for the pile of used newspaper, the tilt of his body startling Pepe, who leapt onto Spock’s shoulder, squirrel fast.

Spock startled only slightly. He adjusted the position of one of his crutches while Pepe snuggled up against his neck. “Corporal?” he said, indicating the skunk with a gesture.

“Did he scratch you?”

“No,” Spock said, holding himself stiffly while Pepe nosed around his ears and hairline. “The animal does, however, exude a distinctive odor.”

“That’s for sure, sir.” He pulled Pepe’s papers out of his cage and replaced them with fresh along with water from his canteen, then scooped the skunk carefully off Spock’s shoulder and back inside. He dumped his rabbits, one at a time, into Hawkeye’s arms next to change their cage.

The alien’s posture relaxed, if only slightly. “I see. Is there anywhere in this camp where we may work without fear of interruption?”

Radar answered without looking, the task of cleaning each cage giving him somewhere to point his eyes without seeming rude. “Well, see, sir, getting interrupted is my job. Somebody always needs something, you know, supplies, or to use the radio, or sometimes to dig something or fetch something. Or you know sometimes they need an orderly in post op…” He shrugged.

Spock turned to Hawkeye. “Is this true?” 

Hawkeye shrugged. “Sort of. Technically yeah, the noncoms are supposed to follow whatever legal orders they’re given by an officer. Most of them make themselves scarce when they don’t have a specific job to do.” He handed the bunnies back to Radar, one at a time. Radar took a moment to pet each and rub his face against their soft fur before tucking them back into their little hutch. 

“A military universal, I believe,” Spock noted. “Still, I, and I suspect Corporal O’Reilly, would prefer some semblance of privacy.”

“Well, we can’t use the supply shed, that’s for sure,” Hawkeye said. Radar felt the heat rising to his cheeks. He knew what Hawkeye got up to in the supply shed with the nurses and sometimes BJ, heck what almost everybody got up to in the supply shed with almost everybody. It was an open secret and most of them, Hawkeye included, weren’t especially quiet about it. Not that being quiet would have helped.

“Would the quarters I currently share with Corporal Klinger be acceptable to you?” Spock asked.

“I guess so,” Radar said. “Should I go ask him?”

“Please do.”

Radar jogged over to where klinger perched on the roof of the hospital building, a loop of braided cable coiled over one arm. “Hey Klinger!” he shouted.

“Kinda busy trying not to fall off the roof!” Klinger said. “Though I suppose if I could do it just right, break both legs…”

“Come on, Klinger, I need to ask you something.” It didn’t look like Klinger was fixing to fall anytime soon, so Radar crossed that brief worry off in his head. Huh. He got distracted thinking about the fact he had just looked at Klinger’s future without even thinking about it and realized Klinger had just spoken. “Um, sorry, I didn’t hear you, what?”

“Ask away, my friend!” Klinger said.

“I need to use your tent to um…talk about some stuff with Hawkeye and Spock.”

“It’s Spock’s room too, he can use it for whatever he wants.” Klinger turned back to his task.

Radar jogged back to the cages, snuck a glance at the officers waiting for him, and said, “Klinger said it’s your room too.”

“We heard you,” Hawkeye said. Sitting with Pepe had made him forget about the squeezing in his chest, but it was back again with a vengeance, along with flashes of hot/cold at the same time all over his skin, his face and hands and feet. He knew Hawkeye felt that way all the time too, only getting a break when he was deeply engrossed in surgery or drinking. They never talked about it, but sometimes when things were especially tense they looked at each other and Radar would press a hand flat against his own chest and Hawkeye would nod.

How did the rest of them turn it off? Being here made Hawkeye scared, and for good reason. Radar just wasn’t wired right, so things that shouldn’t scare him did, had pretty much forever. And nothing made him scared like other people being scared at him and that was all the time here. So he was used to it. He realized that the officers had been talking all this time and that made his stomach clench again, because he hadn’t been listening, but he knew Hawkeye almost never held that against him. Spock, on the other hand, probably thought he was all kinds of stupid. Not knowing made him guess the worst, which was probably not fair of him at all.

“Corporal?” Spock said.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, I was just thinking about stuff. Um.” He followed Spock back to his temporary billet in Klinger’s tent, Hawkeye following behind him. In case Radar ran off again? Spock arranged himself on the edge of the bed, visible now since the rack of dresses was pushed aside. Hawkeye took the chair by the vanity. Radar stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“Radar, come sit down,” Hawkeye said.

“Is that an order, sir?” came out of his mouth before he could stop it. He rushed over and sat down in the remaining chair, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants.

“It wasn’t an order, Radar,” Hawkeye assured him.

Funny how the phrase cold feet sounded funny to him until he realized his feet were actually cold. And his hands. “I think we should wait until after we finish the subspace receiver, actually,” Radar told them. “We’ve got a lot of work to do to get the subspace receiver finished. That…I just needed to catch up on my sleep a little. That’s all.”

“You are in pain,” Spock said. 

Radar looked back at the door, then down at his hands where they fiddled with the hem of his jacket.. “It’s just a headache. I always have a headache. It’s been worse.”

Hawkeye said, “Radar, it’s not normal to always have a headache.”

His eyes stung, suddenly, surprising him. He swallowed so his voice wouldn’t sound weird. “Well I’m not normal, am I?” He squeezed his knees to keep from rubbing his eyes.

“Corporal O’Reilly, are you aware that I am half-human?”

He nodded looked up to look carefully at the bridge of Spock’s nose. “Yeah, Hawkeye said so, sir. So what?”

“I am the first surviving hybrid between my parents’ species. There have since been a small number of others, less than ten I believe, but for much of my childhood I was the only one. I was not normal, and my peers, and to an extent my own father, never let me forget it. It took me a long time to find a place to belong.”

Radar hunched, not even fake-looking at them anymore, they sat on the periphery of his vision, glassily unreadable and fizzing anxious static, afraid for him not of him but still. “I fit in okay here. I don’t want that to change.” It was a fine line to walk and nobody realized more than Radar did how lucky he was that everybody at the 4077th let him walk it. In high school, before he left, he got punched in the mouth once for finishing somebody’s sentences. He never told his Ma the somebody was a teacher.

Hawkeye shifted in his seat. “It won’t, Radar.”

“You don’t know that.”

Hawkeye exploded out of his chair, like he did all the time when there was too much in his head to be contained by a still body. “Radar, everything’s gonna change. None of us knows how or when or how much. Whatever it is goes on in that head of yours, that hurts you and scares you--the fact you won’t talk about it with us because we wouldn’t understand—that hurts us too. Radar, after—after you know. I wasn’t sure we were going to get you back. Not--whole.” He spun the chair to drape himself over it backwards, arms and chin resting on the seat back. “Radar, I love you like you’re my own kid. Not that I have a kid, but, you understand. I could not love you less, no matter what happens.”

Hawkeye believed what he said. But he could change his mind. People did. Radar forced himself to look up at the alien. No, at Spock. “Sir, after you, um, fix me, will I still be me anymore?”

“I would not alter your mind so radically that you would no longer be yourself. That would be both unnecessary and unethical in the extreme. At present, my intention is to gather information concerning how your clairvoyant and telepathic abilities interact with each other and to assist you in constructing a mental shield that I hope will place those abilities more under your control.” 

That sounded hard, and Radar knew he wasn’t very smart, no matter what the time travelers kept saying. Eleven years of schoolteachers made sure he knew that. “So, um, how come you’re doing this and not Dr. McCoy? I mean, he’s a doctor.”

Spock actually looked confused. It wasn’t a look Radar had seen on him before. “Dr. McCoy, while possessed of well above average psi ability for his species, is not capable of initiating telepathic contact.”

“But he’s got, you know, that shield thing.”

“As does the captain. Most people can, with assistance, learn to shield their minds from unwanted contact. Dr. McCoy is in a position to encounter persons who might attempt to attack him mentally. Shielding was a logical skill for him to learn.”

“Doctors are smart, though,” Radar said. “I didn’t even finish high school.”

Spock dismissed his remark with a faint head shake. “All I ask at this time is that you give me your full attention. Shall we begin?” Clearly Spock knew stalling when he saw it.

He sucked in a breath. “Yes, sir.”

Spock shook his head minutely. “This is in no way an order. You are entirely free to refuse.”

Radar tried to meet Spock’s eyes, settled on looking at his nose. Rubbed his own nose and fiddled with his glasses and forced his hands back into his lap, lacing the fingers together. “Okay. Just please let’s stop talking about it and do the thing before I change my mind. I just can’t bear it if you keep talking.” He resisted the urge to squinch his eyes tight shut, realized he was hyperventilating and held his breath instead. 

“Breathe,” Spock said. “You may close your eyes if you prefer to do so.” Spock reached toward him and he did end up closing his eyes at the last second. He just might have flinched a little. Spock continued, his voice low and almost sing-song, like he was repeating a stock phrase, “My mind to yours, my thoughts to yours…” For a moment he thought he was falling out of the chair, he was dizzy and queasy and he fought to regain his equilibrium. He thought he felt Spock’s concern, maybe frustration, but before his own shame at being frustrating could properly take hold, a decision, then he found himself suddenly and briefly in freefall.

He was standing on warm, packed earth, looking out over a waving, knee high sea of young corn toward a horizon that stretched flat, unrelieved by hills as far as he could see. _I’m home,_ he thought.

In the back of his mind he was aware that the cornfield, the chicken shed off to the left, the hard packed ground separating the close cropped yard from the planted crops, none of it was real. It was made of memory, a soft, familiar place to rest until whatever else was going to happen got around to happening. He lay back on a patch of green, hands laced behind his head to look straight up at the clear blue sky. The grass tickled the backs of his hands. It was so quiet. Quiet like when Ma and Uncle Ed were off in town and he was alone on the farm, no one around for miles and miles.

He could feel behind the grass and sky and warbling chickens a reality in which parts of him were being touched lightly, tested and sometimes gently adjusted, and he suspected his lack of curiosity about all the poking and prodding wasn’t quite natural. He tried to pay attention to that other reality. _Do not,_ he was told. At least he was good at doing what he was told.

He didn’t know how long he lay listening to the breeze in the corn and watching the blue and birdless sky before he felt something like a tap on the shoulder and sat up, still in his yard. He was in his overalls. Spock wore black pants on two perfect legs and a bright blue shirt, the clothes he had been wearing when the three travelers first appeared. Radar remembered, involuntarily, those clothes torn and spattered with green but again felt his attention shifted away from the thought.

 _Jim would recognize this space,_ Spock said. _Though he has a fondness for late fall and mazes cut into the corn._

Radar felt oddly light and realized after a moment that it was because he didn’t hurt. Not even a little. _I like spring,_ he said, fumbling for a moment in the effort to make words without sound. _Smells nice and everything’s growing and new. Didn’t you make this place for me?_

_Not as such, no. Our minds seek an ordered space in which to exist. I merely allowed your preferences as to the appearance of that space to supersede mine._

For once, he didn’t have to ask what supersede meant. The words came with definitions cooked into them. He thought of Pete, or the boy even younger than he was, the one with the burns who had probably died by now, though he did make it onto the bus to Tokyo. It might help somebody to not have to be in a hospital bed, scared and in pain, even if only for a little while. _Could I make a place like this for somebody else?_

Spock seemed surprised that he would jump to that conclusion so quickly. _You do not understand. A meld is not a trivial thing._

Chastized, he almost didn’t answer. Did Spock seriously think he’s go hide with his animals to avoid something he thought was trivial? He had what he wanted to say kind of mixed up in his head. It had something to do with dying young men and running around Post Op with damp washrags and glasses of water and it not being enough and sometimes those guys just lay there and cried and--

 _My apologies. The assumptions of our respective cultures differ, perhaps. There is nothing trivial about the desire to ease suffering._ Radar caught an image of Bones at the periphery of his vision, combined with a sort of fondness and admiration. Kind of like how he felt about Hawkeye and BJ. _To answer your question, I suspect you would be capable with additional training. For the moment, attend to the sky_.

Radar obeyed. The blue vanished, leaving a sky not night black, but a flatter color, the slightly muddy black of closed eyelids. A greenish blue smudge flickered, filling perhaps a quarter of the sky. Hawkeye in his mind’s eye was always green with just a hint of blue, a sort of pine tree color. He seemed…restless. Which was pretty much usual for Hawkeye.

_Hawkeye is keeping watch beside us. Try to bring back the blue sky so you can neither see nor feel him._

_How?_

There was that something going on behind the scene itself again, a sort of pushing out and smoothing, sky blue washing out the dark, the smudge that was Hawkeye hidden by the brighter blue. The sky went black again, and Radar could again see and feel bored pine needles. Radar tried to think about being calm and still and pushing away, not hard but flat and firm like he was flattening dough for biscuits and that was probably a silly analogy. It didn’t go with the sky so well. As if one could make sky biscuits and he was distracted. Focus. Blue. There. The sky wavered and shimmered, but it was blue and Hawkeye was invisible on the other side of it. It took some effort, both in keeping enough attention on it and in some physical way he couldn’t attach to a muscle but which made him tired. He sensed Spock’s approval. _I have blocked your awareness of your clairvoyance, for the moment. I would return it to you so we may assess its function._

Spock took control of the sky again, so it became safely and effortlessly solid blue around them. The ground lurched under Radar and he clutched the grass with both hands. The farm wasn’t quiet anymore. The future crowded in like insistent daydreams, some near and more certain like the wounded that would begin to arrive late tomorrow, though their presence was much more solid than their faces. Some were more distant and overlaid with different possibilities, three or four or five of them stacked onto each other. A persistent and ugly darkness that was not tomorrow, but not so distant either cut the horizon short. He shied away from looking at it. _What do I do?_

 _I do not know. I have not been here before._ Radar turned to Spock. He just bet being in his proper uniform made him feel braver. Radar thought himself into his dress uniform, surprised he could manage it, but Ma always did say he had an active imagination. He took a step forward into the young corn. It grew a tiny bit taller with each step toward the dense gray cloud. He had thought the darkness to be a kind of fog, but as he got closer he could see orange sparks swirling through it. Smoke. He could feel Spock beside him more than see him. Spock didn’t understand any more than Radar did, but he wasn’t going to leave him alone. _Look at the corn._

Spock sent a question. Radar explained, _It’s time. That’s three weeks growth, about, from where we started._ He made himself face into the ugly possibilities. His nightmares were inside the smoke, he could see flashes of them, Spock lying on the radio room floor unmoving, dead or not dead, there were multiple possibilities sitting on top of each other. He felt he was being held steady again, like there was a wall between himself and his fear. There were monsters after Radar. He ran, but they grabbed him and some others…they would try to get somebody but it wasn’t clear who. _The monsters…_ he began.

_Are Klingons. And persons, though not friendly._

_There’s more stuff but it’s all fire and crying and—_ This didn’t make any more sense than the nightmares themselves, but why was BJ crying? He couldn’t see, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was afraid to look or if there really wasn’t anything there yet to see. 

Spock marked out the edges of the cloud of smoke with his footsteps, pushed into it, then staggered out, the image of him smearing like watercolor. Radar dissolved into panic. The smoke rolled over him and poured fragmented, incomprehensible images like fragments of nightmare into his mind. He was alone—

And then not alone, but the cornfield was gone, and there was nothing but smoke and ashes.

He coughed from imagined smoke, doubled over in his chair and drew a hard, loud breath. Spock was still there with him, not as clearly, half drowned out by Hawkeye, who had rushed forward to grab his arms and shout at him. He windmilled backwards, almost falling out of the chair for real this time. For the barest moment, he saw something like distress on Spock’s face, but he covered it and was still again. 

“Are you all right?” Hawkeye said, looking from Radar to Spock and back. _If he hurt Radar I swear…_

Radar shook his head. Spock said, “I am undamaged. Radar, breathe slowly.”

“What happened?” Radar asked, when he caught his breath.

“I attempted to determine how your visions reach you. I was unsuccessful. If I cannot do so, I cannot assist you in controlling them.”

“It’s okay,” Radar said. “I’ll be okay.”

Hawkeye was going on in his head about how he wasn’t going to just be okay and that was really not helpful at all, but at least he didn’t say it to his face. That was something.

“Try the shield,” Spock instructed. “That, at least, should prove useful to you.”

“Umm, okay?” He tried to surround himself with smooth sky blue, imagine it just like he had before. It worked, Hawkeye’s chatter faded, but the shield was hard to hold on to.

“Acceptable. Can you stand?”

He tried, but got a little dizzy and Hawkeye had to steady him and so smashed straight through the shield, worry and maybe a little pinch of angry at Spock with a _You better not have hurt him!_ Radar pushed out the shield again and snatched his arm away. Once the ground stopped tilting so much he felt okay. It was weird not to have a headache though. Not bad weird, but weird.

“You will need to practice the shield and you must learn to meditate, or the damage I repaired will return. It is probable we can determine an effective strategy to manage your talent in time." 

“Yes, um. Right. Sir.” He wondered if he should say thank you or if that was inappropriate and eventually just ducked his head and adjusted his beanie. 

Spock hauled himself back onto his crutches. Hawkeye got the door for him. Radar followed a pace behind. “I will meet you in the radio room. I intend to complete the transponder this evening,” Spock said. 

“Do I look any different?” Radar had to ask Hawkeye, once Spock was out of earshot. Human earshot anyway. 

Hawkeye made a show of looking him over. “No. You look like you. Do I look different?” 

“Yeah. You don’t glow. And you’re quiet, for a change.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “The Klingons, those guys with the big hair and funny foreheads and laser guns, they’re coming. We’ve got three weeks, maybe four.” 

“Three weeks, maybe four,” Hawkeye repeated dismally. 

“Yeah. Don’t shoot the messenger, all right?” He skipped out of range of Hawkeye’s grabby hands before he realized what he was doing, and wondered why he cared more all of a sudden. He guessed it didn’t take long to get used to not drowning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how many times I rewrote this to try to get Radar's characterization right? No, you don't. It was flipping hard, and the tone definitely leans more toward one fandom than the other. I swear.
> 
> Someday Radar's best friend will be a rock. There will be shenanigans. 
> 
> Anyway, comments are lovely, questions are great, hope I don't lose you....


	5. In which Radar calls his mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock and Radar finally finish the subspace receiver and monitor local communications traffic.

It was 0300 hours. Spock spared himself an hour for meditation after Corporal O’Reilly had gone to bed, justifying the time spent with the knowledge that he would make it up in increased efficiency by morning. He was working on soldering the transducer components and hand-programming the device to pick up the subspace frequencies most likely to carry traffic when he heard a strangled sob from Corporal O’Reilly’s cot.

His hand tightened on the forceps for a moment, but he adjusted his grip and continued the delicate solder, knowing he would finish in less than two minutes and not wanting to lose the progress he had made. The corporal muttered in his sleep, turned onto his side, and curled tighter into a fetal position, much as Jim did when plagued by nightmares. He finished his work.

It was unfortunate that O’Reilly, whom Spock had begun to think of as Radar in spite of himself, slept on a cot so close to the floor. More accurately, it was unfortunate that Spock had lost his leg, so that getting down onto the floor was more arduous than it ought to be. He did not bother with the crutches to take only two or three steps, but simply slid out of his seat and to the floor, then scooted inelegantly over to the side of the cot.

He and Radar had discussed the matter of the nightmares, especially the possibility that they might be a source of actionable intelligence about the near term future. Spock decided that he would attempt to observe the next such event for a time before waking Radar, in hopes that the young man was more receptive to the impressions he received while unconscious than he was while awake, given that he spent so much effort suppressing them during the day. Spock also hoped that with his faster processing speed he might be able to collect and process Radar’s impressions in more detail than the young human could. 

He centered himself briefly and silently, thinking rather than speaking the words that helped him ready his mind for contact with another’s. Radar’s face, he noted, was wet with tears. Spock settled his fingers lightly onto the corporal’s face and allowed his eyes to drift closed. It was difficult to resist reaching out directly to Radar in his distress, but he intended to do so, observing the storm of images pouring into his mind both unfiltered and unrelieved. He could bring the nightmare to an end in moments when he gathered what information he could, or if he or Radar proved unable to endure it, and that fact gave him some sense of security. 

Instead of a blizzard of impressions, he found himself faced with only one, a scene permeated with despair. BJ Hunnicutt, the doctor who had saved Jim’s life, sat on his cot with a crumpled paper in his hands, sobbing, while Pierce tried ineffectively to wrap arms around him tightly enough to capture and contain his grief. There was a second impression, a flash of light and a mushroom cloud superimposed on the scene. Radar caught Spock’s presence and reached out for support, though he was still trapped in the limited awareness of the dream state. Spock held their focus on the scene while Radar’s awareness returned and his grief changed to resolve.

 _I need to get up,_ Radar said.

Spock released him, holding onto the details of the vision in case Radar could not. He was familiar with the ease with which human memory discarded the contents of dreams. Radar wrapped his blanket around him, tucked his bear under his arm, and stepped carefully around Spock to sit by the radio. He changed the position of a few plugs, put on his headphones and said, “Hey, Sparky? Sparky?”

After a wait, he apparently got hold of Sparky. “I need to get through to Iowa. Ottumwa. Here’s the number.” He rattled off a string of numbers. “Yes, that’s my mom. Do me a favor here, I’ve got two calls to make.” Another long pause.

“Hey, dispatch, patch me through to Ottumwa. Yeah, that’s right…” and finally, “Ma! Ma! Listen Ma, I need you to do me a favor. Get the guest room ready, I got some friends I want to visit with you. I don’t know…maybe a while.” He yawned into his hand. “It’s a lady and her baby.” He chuckled. “I, yeah, it would be nice to have a baby in the house I bet. Just…no, I can’t explain why. You know why I can’t Ma. Well, partly it’s, well, it’s classified. I love you too, Ma. I miss you. I got another call to make. Bye now.”

He turned back to Spock. “That’s one down.”

Spock chose not to comment on Radar’s behavior, though he suspected his use of the radio for personal matters was probably not allowed. Radar crossed the room to pull a file out of the cabinet and flip through it, then sat back down at his desk. “Hey, Sparky, it’s me again. Second call. I need San Francisco. Here’s your number.” He rattled off a short string of letters and numbers. “Right. The name is Hunnicutt. Peg Hunnicutt.”

There was another, longer pause. “Um, Hello, ma’am. Corporal O’Reilly from the 4077th. No, BJ’s fine, I just needed to talk to you. I need you to take Erin and go to my mom’s place in Ottumwa. No, it’s really important, you gotta go.” A longish pause. “O’Reilly. Radar O’Reilly. Yeah, that Radar. Here’s the address.” He supplied it slowly. Repeated it three times. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you why, just please. Go.” 

He broke the connection and turned back to Spock. “I had to do it, sir.”

Spock nodded curtly. “I know. May I surmise that you were attempting to prevent harm from coming to Dr. Hunnicutt’s family?”

Radar nodded. 

A hypothesis formed in his mind. “Your impressions, are they always connected to people who are important to you?”

Radar gave it some thought. “Um. Well, when the choppers come over the hill it’s more like I know everybody’s going to be running to the helipads. Same way you know it’s lunchtime.” He turned away to return the file to its place in the cabinet. “I guess maybe. I mean something bad’s going to happen to San Francisco—but I think I only know about it because of BJ.”

Radar, like any person with his level of ability, would easily be able to form familial bonds without being aware of doing so. After all, McCoy had done so and did not even *quite* meet the legal threshold to be considered esper in their home time. It was possible Radar’s precognitive gift was somehow tied to those bonds. They could explore that possibility later. The revelation that “something bad” involving a mushroom cloud was likely to occur in San Francisco was critical. “You have mentioned on occasion that events you see sometimes change, and that you can perceive the relative likelihood that they will occur. Do you have any impression of the likelihood of the attack on San Francisco?”

Radar shook his head, but when Spock held his gaze, he looked away, then down at the floor, chewing his bottom lip. After a moment, he shook his head again. “I think it’s going to happen. Somebody’s going to nuke San Francisco.”

“Then it is imperative we obtain assistance from the Federation as soon as possible. Shall we continue our work on the subspace receiver? It is unlikely the general will provide us with the assistance we need based on evidence that cannot be independently verified.”

Radar nodded, then collected Spock’s crutches and helped him to his feet.

*

It was 0600 hours. Radar was assembling the interface between the radio and the transducer, while Spock was finishing the transducer itself. One of their three precious communicators lay open and stripped on his desk, the tiny subspace relay within requiring connection to the amplifying components he had built with his ring and the diamonds obtained from major Houlihan. Spock noted that the clerk had taken off the brace on his hand, but had said nothing, though he clearly recalled Dr. McCoy telling him to keep it on for at least another twelve hours. The radio needed to be completed as soon as possible

“I need three hands,” Radar said. “Could you hold this blue wire in place while I solder it?”

“Certainly, Radar.”

Radar ducked his head and beamed at the use of his chosen name, and Spock determined to continue to do so as long as they remained in close association. When he had finished steadying the wire, Radar thanked him and continued to his next task. They worked quickly and efficiently off Spock’s hand drawn diagrams, the tangle of wire connecting Spock’s subspace transponder growing deceptively chaotic where it lay piled on the table beside the radio.

On hearing Colonel Potter’s distinctive footfalls, Spock raised his head from where it was buried in the back of the radio. “How are we getting on here?”

Radar popped up at the sound of his commanding officer’s voice, unfortunately smacking his head on the underside of the table. “Ow! Jeeminy Christmas! Sorry sir. Sirs.”

“I am completing the final set of connections as we speak. Radar?”

“Yes, sir?” Radar had recovered his composure, but was still settling his beanie back onto his head.

“Take a meal break. When you return, bring Doctor McCoy and his data pad. It will be necessary to translate any transmissions not in Federation Standard.”

“Which would be all of them, wouldn’t it?” Radar asked. “I mean since we’re not in, um, Federation space and all.”

Spock clarified, “It is possible that the receiver will pick up chatter from Federation ships on the border, but you are correct, the bulk of communications will be in Klingon languages and probably encrypted.”

Radar bobbed his head in acknowledgment and ducked out the door, leaving Spock alone with the Colonel. Potter perched on the edge of the table, one leg swinging slightly, a very human gesture and one that particularly reminded him of Jim. “Clayton arrives at two. And we’ve got plenty of attention from the higher ups. He’s bringing Beetle Smith.”

“I am unfamiliar with this person.”

“He’s the new head of the CIA. Central Intelligence Agency. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s brilliant. Probably be running the whole army if he weren’t in and out of the hospital. He’s Flagg’s boss, technically.” 

Spock had not had the misfortune of meeting Colonel Flagg in person, but Radar’s account of his behavior suggested he was a dangerous psychotic. Anyone who allowed such persons free rein to conduct investigations and detain persons in the interest of security troubled him greatly. “That fact does little to recommend him to me.”

Potter acknowledged his concern with pursed lips and a wave of the hand, then said, “He’s been cleaning up the CIA since he took the position a few months ago. It was a real train wreck.” 

“I see,” Spock said. “Perhaps we may assess his competence by how he has responded to the behavior of his agent.”

“There’s a thought.” Potter indicated the radio. “Are we going to have something to show him?”

“Other than the presence of myself and my companions? Much depends on the success of the subspace receiver and the presence of transmitting ships in the area. Much subspace chatter will be encrypted, of course, but we may be able to translate a portion.”

“When will the receiver be ready? Clayton and Smith will be here in eight hours.”

“One hour.”

Potter stood back to regard his and Radar’s handiwork. “And what about Radar? I hate to ask, but he have any ideas?”

“Corporal O’Reilly and I have determined that there is a near certainty that the Klingon Empire will make contact with Earth within three to four weeks time. Such contact will come in the form of an attempt to annex the planet. There seems, in addition, a near certainty that said attempt will include the use of thermonuclear devices on at least one major city.”

Potter took a moment to consider that information. “You’re sure.”

“Corporal O’Reilly is certain.”

“Who am I to argue with that?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, it’s a lot to take in for an old soldier. Which city?”

“San Francisco.”

Potter tilted his head, puzzled. “Why San Francisco? Why not DC or Moscow?”

“I have two hypotheses. First, that San Francisco is only one of several cities that will be targeted. Corporal O’Reilly may have focused upon it because of its connection to Captain Hunnicutt. Second, Starfleet Headquarters is in San Francisco on our Earth.”

Potter frowned. “It’s not likely Beetle’s going to take the word of an alien and a Corporal.”

“I will endeavor to collect as much concrete evidence as possible. Time is short. This planet at its current stage of development cannot hope to prevail against the Klingon Empire without Federation assistance, which will require rapid construction of a subspace transmitter—a project which will require the requisition of materials we do not have to hand.” 

Potter planted a hand on the desk and leaned toward Spock, his face hardening. “You better be damn convincing, then.”

“In our favor we will have the technology we have in our possession, whatever concrete information we can obtain from the subspace receiver, and my nonhuman biology, which would be impossible for anyone on this planet to fake. We will convince them of the need to act by any means necessary.” He chose not to elaborate. 

*

It was 0700 hours. By the time Radar returned with Doctor McCoy and his data pad, accompanied by Doctor Hunnicutt and Major Houlihan, the receiver was complete. A reel to reel tape recorder had been attached to the receiver in order to provide a hardcopy record. “Radar, would you power the device on?” Spock said. 

“Yes, sir,” Radar replied, flipping a handful of switches and handing the headphones to Spock, who declined them with a headshake.

“They are calibrated for human hearing.”

Radar slipped the headphones on, but rummaged in a desk drawer to pull out a small radio with speakers. He moved a few plugs in the box lining the wall, plugged one into the radio, and turned it on. The radio emitted hissing static. Satisfied, Radar pulled off the headphones. “I’m going to listen for one minute on each of the common Federation frequencies, alternating with two minutes on each of the Klingon frequencies until we hear something. Sound good, Mr. Spock, sir?”

“Acceptable.”

For the first ten minutes, they heard nothing but popping static as Radar alternated through the lowest Federation and Klingon bands. It would be easy to miss traffic, given that the radio could listen to only a narrow range of frequencies at any given time, but nothing could be done with that limitation, and if a ship were within the system, it would be likely that some frequency or other would be in use a substantial amount of the time. There was an advantage to the lowest frequencies, in that they traveled farther without losing energy and coherence as quickly. Perhaps that should be incorporated into the search algorithm as well, Spock thought, at least where the Federation frequencies were concerned.

The minutes dragged on with nothing to show for them but static. Neither Spock nor Radar were surprised. Monitoring random traffic was likely to be a lot of listening to static. Hunnicutt left first, citing a need to return to Post-Op. McCoy stepped out briefly, returning with coffee for himself and Major Houlihan. After half an hour, Radar pulled out a stack of papers and began working through them silently. Potter returned to the adjoining office, presumably to do the same. McCoy and Houlihan pulled out a deck of cards. “Care to join us, Spock?” McCoy said.

Spock declined.

Forty eight minutes into their vigil, a fragment of a sentence “…advise as to next…” 

“Stay on that channel. See what we get,” Spock said.

“Yes, sir.” 

Radar stayed on the channel for another eight minutes. “Sir,” he said.

“Yes?” Potter and Spock replied at the same time.

“I think we should keep going and come back to this one.”

“Why?” Spock challenged.

Radar opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. He thought for a moment first, then said, “There are only eight more frequencies to check. I think we should listen to all of them once, then go back to the ones where we heard something.”

“Acceptable,” Spock agreed.

They listened for another fourteen minutes, then Radar reached across the desk to flip the switch on the reel to reel. The clipped, hard consonants of the Klingon language, obscured by static, but recognizeable, filled the small room. McCoy’s data pad began recording as soon as static switched to voice. “…anomaly has changed the paths of several planetoids. Sending updates for stellar…” the pad’s translation program supplied before the transmission ceased, the ship presumably moving out of range.

Radar looked up at Spock and Potter. “Stay on this frequency or move on?”

“Give it ten minutes, see what we get,” Potter told him.

Eight minutes later, they didn’t get a message, as such, but the timbre of the static changed. Potter didn’t seem to notice, but Radar was reaching for the reel to reel even before McCoy’s data pad chimed, noting the presence of an encrypted signal. Potter looked at him curiously. Radar held up a hand to stop him from speaking until the message, whatever it is, ended. “OK, it’s done, now. I just thought…” Radar said, falling back into his habit of self-discounting. He fell silent again.

Spock clarified. “There is an encrypted signal. The static sounds different to the practiced ear.” He glanced at Radar. “You are detecting messages several seconds before they occur.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After you complete the first pass, use your discretion to select frequencies, and times. It is no longer necessary to maintain a strict pattern.”

“Can you decrypt the message?” Potter asked.

“That remains to be seen. Dr. McCoy’s data pad is supplied primarily with medical software, not communications.”

“Maybe our boys can get on it,” Potter said.

Spock doubted that they could, but elected not to insult their host. “Perhaps.”

He worked with the encrypted signal on the data pad while Radar continued to test the last few frequencies before they would start over. The pad was capable of continuing to record what it heard while he worked as long as he stayed within a meter of the broadcast, so he remained in his seat, running the simplest transformations first, discovering he was going to have to write code for the more complex ones himself, as they were absent from the data pad’s memory. Radar worked beside him, listening to each frequency, once more catching a stretch of encrypted Klingon before looping back to the low frequencies to start over. Potter returned to his office to work, poking his head through the doorway roughly every twenty minutes to check their progress.

Spock finished decoding and translating the first message. “…is a Klingon-habitable planet with an indigenous population. Do we pass this up the line or keep the prize for ourselves, brother? Initial scans show significant…” He read it aloud to Radar, half-hoping to trigger an insight.

“Are they talking about us, sir?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so, next episode will be much more Kirk and Potter heavy, with some Kirk POV and a new POV character, Walter Bedell (Beetle) Smith, who headed the CIA during the latter half or so of the Korean War. 
> 
> I'm not sure his inclusion makes this Real Person Fic, but I guess it might.
> 
> So I've been less happy with my output of late, since the semester started, as I'f been trying to keep up with commitments to post on time and also, you know grade papers within a reasonable time frame. Which has caused me to post rougher drafts than I'd like and has really--well, I'm not happy with quality. So the hiatus is going to be a little longer than a week. I'm only letting myself write one thing at a time until a full draft of that thing is done. And the thing that's in the middle of being written right now is The Deep End of the Pool--which I hope is still salvageable.
> 
> The next installment of this thing is next on my list.


End file.
